G.P. Ching's Blog, page 11
March 28, 2012
Inside a Writer's Mind
I'm in Orlando, Florida this week with my family on spring break. If you've never visited Florida, you may not know that the entire state is covered in tiny lizards. To tell you the truth, I'm not sure of the species. Everyone's grandparents live in Florida (or at least they think they are your grandparents) so everywhere you turn there is an octogenarian offering you free information about the state and it's wildlife. Poolside rumor has it that these little guys can drop their tails when they get scared. The tail will continue to flop around, distracting an attacking predator while the lizard gets away. Over time the lizard can regenerate it's tail.
For most tourists, the story would end there but for a writer like me, it's just the beginning. I proceeded to tell my family and the informing octogenarian about how interesting our world would be if people could drop their appendages in a similar way.
There would always be "that kid" in school. You know the one who is afraid of everything. He would drop his arms every time someone said "boo." Bullied kids would constantly have stubs. Kindergarten teachers would rue the first week of school and the accompanying slew of dropped arms.
Parents who wanted to bury their children's lost limbs would have to dig through a "lost and found" where invariably decomposing arms would be confused and arguments of ownership would ensue. Frequent droppers would be forced to wear identifying jewelry. Athletes would be specially trained to not drop under stressful circumstances and wrestlers who gave into the temptation would be harshly teased and immediately disqualified.
Rich parents would buy cosmetic arms for embarrassed droppers. Unclaimed arms would decay at the bottom of the lost and found, forcing administrators to create a policy of cremation for unclaimed limbs at the end of each week. Secretaries would clean out the limb box at the same time they purged the staff refrigerator of unclaimed brown bags.
If you dropped your writing arm, you would be forced to write with your non-dominate hand. But if you dropped both of your arms the school would have to provide you special accommodations. Students who conveniently dropped limbs just before a test would be suspect. Parents would be called.
I could have continued but my daughter begged me to stop and said in hushed tones that I was being "weird" and scaring people. I guess I was. But I bet I am not alone. :)
Inside a writer's mind, anything is possible.
March 16, 2012
St. Patrick's Day Event & Giveaway
New to this event? Start here: St. Patty's Day Event Details
Hello Aengus,
I'm Drucilla, psychic leprechaun and all around sweetheart. I'm here to help you find your true love. She might be closer than you think, you know. Like sometimes, you might think you love one person but you really love the one that's right in front of you.
You must be tired from your search, how about a Drink? No? I have shamrock shakes. Cookies? Corned Beef? Oh come on! What's so special about this Caer anyway?
You know, I've seen the future and you are much happier if you stay and have cookies with me.
I like your beard. Is that vest, like, made of four leaf clovers? Can I touch it?
Do you like my hair? The sparkle is natural.
No?
Move along Aengus. Oh, you want a clue, do you? I'll give you a clue:
Never turn Drucilla down for another dame!
Visit these other leprechauns and see what they have to say:
K.A.Tucker
Megan Duncan
Tiffany King
Angeline Kace
S.M.Reine
M.R.Merrick
"Must be 13 years old or older. Open to wherever Amazon Prime ships within the contiguous U.S. (PO Boxes excluded) and Canada."
a Rafflecopter giveaway
<a href="http://rafl.es/enable-js"&am... need javascript enabled to see this giveaway</a>.
Hello Aengus,
I'm Drucilla, psychic leprechaun and all around sweetheart. I'm here to help you find your true love. She might be closer than you think, you know. Like sometimes, you might think you love one person but you really love the one that's right in front of you.
You must be tired from your search, how about a Drink? No? I have shamrock shakes. Cookies? Corned Beef? Oh come on! What's so special about this Caer anyway?
You know, I've seen the future and you are much happier if you stay and have cookies with me.
I like your beard. Is that vest, like, made of four leaf clovers? Can I touch it?
Do you like my hair? The sparkle is natural.
No?
Move along Aengus. Oh, you want a clue, do you? I'll give you a clue:
Never turn Drucilla down for another dame!
Visit these other leprechauns and see what they have to say:
K.A.Tucker
Megan Duncan
Tiffany King
Angeline Kace
S.M.Reine
M.R.Merrick
"Must be 13 years old or older. Open to wherever Amazon Prime ships within the contiguous U.S. (PO Boxes excluded) and Canada."
a Rafflecopter giveaway
<a href="http://rafl.es/enable-js"&am... need javascript enabled to see this giveaway</a>.
March 14, 2012
Reflections of a First Year Indie
It hardly seems possible. A year ago, I published my debut novel, The Soulkeepers. That novel became the first in a series and as of today, I have three young adult novels on the market and more on the way. I consider the series a success because:
Every book in the series has hit one or more best-seller lists
Over 225,000 of my books have been downloaded or sold
My royalties would have earned out a traditional advance
My royalties are equal to or greater than what I would have earned working full time in a traditional job
I've received fan mail from all over the world
My also bought section looks like this (Do you recognize any of these names?):
Going indie has worked for me but I would be remiss if I didn't mention the growing pains and hardships that came with the indie package.
Indie means entrepreneur. I work 50-80 hours per week writing, editing, formatting and doing all of the things involved in running a small business.
It's difficult to find reliable help. I did finally find an editor that was worth what she was charging. I would like to find a reliable person to format for me who doesn't take 30-60 days to do it and guarantees their work.
When I was approached regarding subsidiary rights, I could not find an agent to represent my interests despite my success. I now have an entertainment lawyer instead. It's amazing to me how hard it is to convince someone to take a chunk of your money.
The environment is filled with non-stop change in policies and procedures. Things can pop up overnight that challenge the way you do business. Luckily, indie authors are nimble and I've been able to adjust reasonably.
Brick and mortar bookstores don't like indies. Weaving Destiny spent December and January in the top 200. I remember walking into my local Barnes and Noble and holding my iPhone up to the shelf where they display the best-sellers. All of the books on the chart next to mine were up there, but no Weaving Destiny. It was a sad moment to have accomplished so much with so little and not be recognized by the industry.
What have I learned from this experience? Well, first off, I didn't need an agent or publisher to be successful. I did it by networking with other writers, significantly Karly Kirkpatrick, Megg Jensen, Angela Carlie, Magan Vernon and The Indelibles. Despite my success, it is clear indies are not given the same opportunities or respect as traditionally published authors. There is still a stigma. Some bloggers won't even read indie work. Most bookstores won't carry indie paperbacks. I couldn't find an agent to represent me for subsidiary rights. I don't qualify for benefits from the Author's Guild, or professional author status from SCBWI or RWA.
While I am aware that the industry has erected these barriers to keep me out (I am obviously indie riff raff!), in an ironic twist I can understand why. My background, after all, is in the business world and I understand how industries resist change. I also understand how a person can say and do some short-sighted things when their career is threatened by a changing environment. But, perhaps, if the traditional publishing industry was run by more business majors than english majors they would come up with more innovative and profitable ways to deal with someone like me besides simply making it more difficult for customers who already want my books to get them.
For example, instead of offering huge six and seven figure advances to a select few writers who will likely never earn them out, perhaps spread some of those dollars to successful indie authors in the form of print only deals. A successful indie doesn't require a large advance because they know they'll make up the royalties in sales. They already have reviews, buzz, and a following. When I was growing up, we used to call this "like shooting fish in a barrel".
Bookstores, why net let indies who meet certain sales targets in? Take a deeper discount. Charge more for hosting book tours. Make it easier for my customers to use you to reach me (and give you a percentage of their dollars). What you are doing now is training readers to go around you to get the books they want.
Same goes for professional organizations. How about a special professional membership for self-pubbed authors who, for example, sell more that 10,000 copies at $2.99 or above with an average rating over 3 stars. I'm making that criteria up on the fly but you get the picture. If the organization was truly worried about quality and professionalism, there are measurable indicators that could be used without issuing a blanket "no" to an entire population of authors.
Anyway, I'm always available to talk to progressive thinkers about the opportunities. Meanwhile, I'll keep doing what I do. I love every minute of it!
Happy Birthday, Soulkeepers! Three books in one year. Who would have thought?
Every book in the series has hit one or more best-seller lists
Over 225,000 of my books have been downloaded or sold
My royalties would have earned out a traditional advance
My royalties are equal to or greater than what I would have earned working full time in a traditional job
I've received fan mail from all over the world
My also bought section looks like this (Do you recognize any of these names?):
Going indie has worked for me but I would be remiss if I didn't mention the growing pains and hardships that came with the indie package.
Indie means entrepreneur. I work 50-80 hours per week writing, editing, formatting and doing all of the things involved in running a small business.
It's difficult to find reliable help. I did finally find an editor that was worth what she was charging. I would like to find a reliable person to format for me who doesn't take 30-60 days to do it and guarantees their work.
When I was approached regarding subsidiary rights, I could not find an agent to represent my interests despite my success. I now have an entertainment lawyer instead. It's amazing to me how hard it is to convince someone to take a chunk of your money.
The environment is filled with non-stop change in policies and procedures. Things can pop up overnight that challenge the way you do business. Luckily, indie authors are nimble and I've been able to adjust reasonably.
Brick and mortar bookstores don't like indies. Weaving Destiny spent December and January in the top 200. I remember walking into my local Barnes and Noble and holding my iPhone up to the shelf where they display the best-sellers. All of the books on the chart next to mine were up there, but no Weaving Destiny. It was a sad moment to have accomplished so much with so little and not be recognized by the industry.
What have I learned from this experience? Well, first off, I didn't need an agent or publisher to be successful. I did it by networking with other writers, significantly Karly Kirkpatrick, Megg Jensen, Angela Carlie, Magan Vernon and The Indelibles. Despite my success, it is clear indies are not given the same opportunities or respect as traditionally published authors. There is still a stigma. Some bloggers won't even read indie work. Most bookstores won't carry indie paperbacks. I couldn't find an agent to represent me for subsidiary rights. I don't qualify for benefits from the Author's Guild, or professional author status from SCBWI or RWA.
While I am aware that the industry has erected these barriers to keep me out (I am obviously indie riff raff!), in an ironic twist I can understand why. My background, after all, is in the business world and I understand how industries resist change. I also understand how a person can say and do some short-sighted things when their career is threatened by a changing environment. But, perhaps, if the traditional publishing industry was run by more business majors than english majors they would come up with more innovative and profitable ways to deal with someone like me besides simply making it more difficult for customers who already want my books to get them.
For example, instead of offering huge six and seven figure advances to a select few writers who will likely never earn them out, perhaps spread some of those dollars to successful indie authors in the form of print only deals. A successful indie doesn't require a large advance because they know they'll make up the royalties in sales. They already have reviews, buzz, and a following. When I was growing up, we used to call this "like shooting fish in a barrel".
Bookstores, why net let indies who meet certain sales targets in? Take a deeper discount. Charge more for hosting book tours. Make it easier for my customers to use you to reach me (and give you a percentage of their dollars). What you are doing now is training readers to go around you to get the books they want.
Same goes for professional organizations. How about a special professional membership for self-pubbed authors who, for example, sell more that 10,000 copies at $2.99 or above with an average rating over 3 stars. I'm making that criteria up on the fly but you get the picture. If the organization was truly worried about quality and professionalism, there are measurable indicators that could be used without issuing a blanket "no" to an entire population of authors.
Anyway, I'm always available to talk to progressive thinkers about the opportunities. Meanwhile, I'll keep doing what I do. I love every minute of it!
Happy Birthday, Soulkeepers! Three books in one year. Who would have thought?
March 2, 2012
Return to Eden Available Now!
The third book in the Soulkeepers Series, Return to Eden, is available now on
Amazon
Barnes and Noble
Smashwords
Introductory price: $2.99
Apple(iBooks), Kobo, Sony, Deisel, and paperback still to come. The book will tour in April when all formats are available.
Dr. Abigail Silva has waited over 10,000 years for redemption and a chance at a real relationship with the angel she loves. But when you're made from evil itself, it's hard to remember if salvation is worth the wait. With Lucifer's plan coming to fruition, she must decide if God's offer of humanity is all it's cracked up to be, or if a deal with the devil is the more promising solution.
February 27, 2012
Tour Stop: Channeler's Choice by Heather McCorkle
Releasing (officially) February 27th in hardback and eBook, Channeler's Choice, the sequel to Heather McCorkle's earth-conscious urban fantasy, The Secret Of Spruce Knoll. To celebrate she's doing a blog tour from February 27th through March 15thalong with a giveaway. Here are the prizes:
Winner #1:
An eBook of Tangled Tides by Karen Amanda Hooper
An eBook of Running Wide Open by Lisa Nowak
An eBook of The Secret Of Spruce Knoll (if you don't have a copy yet)
A paperback of Born Of Fire & Dies Irae (novella combination by Heather McCorkle and Christine Fonseca released through Compass Press)
And of course, Channeler's Choice swag (bookmarks, postcards, etc.)
Winner #2
An eBook of Beautiful Demons & Inner Demons by Sarra Cannon
An eBook of Bound by C.K. Bryant
An eBook of The Secret Of Spruce Knoll (if you don't have a copy yet)
A paperback of Born Of Fire & Dies Irae (novella combination by Heather McCorkle and Christine Fonseca released through Compass Press)
And of course, Channeler's Choice swag (bookmarks, postcards, etc.)
If you don't have an eReader then you'll definitely want to stay tuned on Heather's blog for a HUGE giveaway taking place at the end of the Channeler's Choice tour.
To enter stop by her blog for official details. http://heathermccorkle.blogspot.com
Here is a bit about Channeler's Choice:
With her parents' murderer's dead, Eren can finally concentrate on fitting in at Spruce Knoll High, not to mention figuring out what it means to be a channeler. If only it were that easy. It turns out she isn't normal even among channelers - she may be a legendary warrior meant to protect the earth in a last great battle.
But Mayan prophecies are the least of her worries as she involuntarily starts to gather her own Society, another girl moves in on Aiden, her powers rage out of control, and worst of all, someone is stalking her. To top it all off, Eren discovers she doesn't have to be a channeler after all - she has a choice.
As an old threat closes in and she risks ending up like her parents, she is forced to decide. Be a normal teenager and leave the legendary warrior stuff to someone else, or embrace a dark destiny?
It can be found here:
http://www.amazon.com/Channelers-Choice-Heather-McCorkle/dp/0984786333
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/channelers-choice-heather-mccorkle/1108802102
http://www.bookdepository.com/Channelers-Choice-Heather-McCorkle/9780984786336
February 24, 2012
Don't Fear The Reaper by Michelle Muto
Today, I'm helping to spread the word about a wonderful new book by fellow Indelible author Michelle Muto. I don't think it will take you long to see why this is my kind of book. First chapter below. Happy Reading!
Grief-stricken by the murder of her twin, Keely
Morrison is convinced suicide is her ticket to eternal peace and a chance to
reunite with her sister. When Keely succeeds in taking her own life, she
discovers death isn't at all what she expected. Instead, she's trapped in a
netherworld on Earth and her only hope for reconnecting with her sister and
navigating the afterlife is a bounty-hunting reaper and a sardonic, possibly
unscrupulous, demon. But when the demon offers Keely her greatest
temptation—revenge on her sister's murderer—she must uncover his motives and
determine who she can trust. Because, as Keely soon learns, both reaper and
demon are keeping secrets and she fears the worst is true—that her every
decision will change how, and with whom, she spends eternity.
Buy Don't Fear The Reaper:
Amazon US, Amazon UK, Barnes and Noble, iTunes, Smashwords, Createspace
Connect with Michelle Muto:
Facebook, Twitter, Blog
Chapter 1
Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall
fear no evil, for they are with me.
I repeated my version of the psalm as I watched the ribbon of blood
drift from my wrist. I'd hoped it would be a distraction—something to stop me
from wondering what my sister's dying thoughts had been. Exhaling slowly, I let
the emptiness consume me.
Jordan had kept my secrets and I had kept hers. In the end, it came down
to just one secret between us that took her life. Now, it would take mine. I
should have said something, but nothing I said or did now could bring her back
or make anyone understand what she meant to me.
Are you here, Jordan? Are you with me? Tell me about heaven...
I told myself Jordan was gone, never coming back, but her memories
continued to haunt me. I had no idea if there even was an afterlife. If
God existed, I was convinced he had given up on me. Not once did I sense he'd
heard a single one of my prayers. I wasn't asking for the world—I only wanted
to know if my sister was safe and at peace. What was so hard about that?
She should still be here. It wasn't fair.
I'd been the difficult one—much more than Jordan. For a while, I'd even
gotten into drugs. Mom and Dad had worried I'd get Jordan into drugs, too. But
I wouldn't. Not ever. Besides, that part of my life had been over long before
Jordan's death. A small gargoyle tattoo on my left shoulder was all that
remained of my previous lifestyle.
Mom and Dad started treating me differently after Jordan's funeral two
months ago. She and I were twins, so I understood how hard it was for them to
look at me and not see her. Sometimes, they wouldn't look at me at all. Mom
went to the psychiatrist, but no one asked if I needed to talk to someone about
what happened. No one asked if I needed sleeping pills or antidepressants.
Yeah, sure. Don't give the former addict pills of any sort.
Not one person saw the all-consuming suffering that gnawed at my soul.
Why couldn't anyone see? Jordan had been more than my sister—she'd been my
Samson, my strength. I would have done anything for her, and yet, I'd failed
her. I wasn't the one who'd killed her, but I might as well have been. How
could I ever live with that? My heart had a stillness to it since her
death.
I shall fear no evil.
I couldn't very well recite the first part of Psalm 23 because it said I
shall not want, and I did want. I wanted to go back in time. I wanted my
sister back. Clearly, goodness and mercy were never going to be part of my life
ever again. In my mind, I saw myself walking through the iron gates of hell
with demons cackling gleefully all around.
I didn't want to die. Not really. I was just tired and didn't know of
another way to stop the pain. Doctors removed a bad appendix. Dentists pulled
rotten teeth. What was I supposed to do when my very essence hurt, when the
cancer I'd come to call depression made every decent memory agonizingly
unbearable?
Before I'd gotten down to cutting my wrist (I managed to only cut one),
I'd taken a few swigs of Dad's tequila—the good kind he kept in the basement
freezer. I'd used another swig or two to chase down the remainder of Mom's
sleeping pills in the event I failed to hit an artery or vein. Then I'd set the
bottle on the ledge of the tub in case I needed further liquid encouragement.
Instead of using a knife or a razor, I attached a cutting blade to my Dad's
Dremel. The Dremel was faster, I reasoned. More efficient.
It would have been easier to OD, I suppose. But I felt closer to my
sister this way, to suffer as she'd suffered.
I recited the line from Psalms 23 again. It had become my personal
mantra.
The words resonated in my parents' oversized bathroom. I'd chosen theirs
because the Jacuzzi tub was larger than the tub in the hall bathroom. Jordan
and I used to take bubble baths together in this same tub when we were little.
Innocence felt like a lifetime ago. I searched the bathroom for bubble
bath but came up short. Soap might have made the laceration hurt more so it was
probably just as well. Besides, the crimson streaming from my wrist like
watercolor on silk was oddly mesmerizing.
The loneliness inside proved unrelenting, and the line from the psalms
made me feel better. I prayed for the agony inside me to stop. I argued with
God. Pleaded. But after all was said and done, I just wanted the darkness to
call me home.
I tried not to think of who would find my body or who'd read the note
I'd left. I blamed myself not only for failing Jordan, but for failing my parents,
too.
My lifeline to this existence continued to bleed out into the warm
water. Killing myself had been harder than I'd imagined. I hadn't anticipated
the searing fire racing through my veins. I reached for the tequila with my
good arm but couldn't quite manage. Tears welled in my eyes.
Part of me foolishly felt Jordan was here. The other part feared she
wasn't.
Give me a sign, Sis. Just one.
I imagined seeing my parents at my funeral—their gaunt faces, red-eyed
and sleepless. How could I do this to them? Wasn't the devastation of losing
one child enough?
No. Stop. A voice in my head screamed. Don't do this. Don't. Please...
I shifted my body, attempted to get my uncooperative legs under me. I
could see the phone on my parents' nightstand. I could make it that far. Had
to. The voice was right. I didn't want to do this. I felt disorientated, dizzy.
Darkness crept along the edges of my vision. Focusing became difficult. A
sweeping shadow of black caught my attention. Someone stood in the bathroom—not
my sister. A man. Had I managed to call 911? I couldn't remember getting out of
the tub. And why'd I get back in? Did I use a towel?
Mom is going to be pissed when she sees the blood I've tracked all over
the bedroom carpet.
"I'm sorry," I told the man in black.
"It's okay, Keely. Don't be afraid." Not my father's voice. It was
softer, with a hint of sorrow. Distant. Fleeting. Later, I'd feel embarrassed
about this, but for now I was safe from the nothing I'd almost become. My teeth
clattered from the chill. My eyelids fluttered in time with my breaths. The tub
water had turned the color of port wine. The ribbons, the pretty, red
watercolor ribbons were gone.
Dull gray clouded my sight.
A voice whispered to me, and my consciousness floated to the surface
again.
"—okay, Keely."
Cold. So cold.
"I'm right here."
There was no fear in me as the man bent forward, his face inches from
mine. He was my father's age, and yet strangely older. His eyes were so...blue,
almost iridescent. The irises were rimmed in a fine line of black, and the
creases etched at the corners reminded me of sunbeams as he gave me a weak
smile. The oddly. Dressed. Paramedic. A warm hand reached into the water and
cradled mine. My fingers clutched his. I sighed, feeling myself floating,
drifting. Light—high and intense exploded before me. No! Too much. Too much!
I shuddered and labored to catch my breath, but it wouldn't come.
Finally,
the comfort of darkness rose to greet me.
Grief-stricken by the murder of her twin, KeelyMorrison is convinced suicide is her ticket to eternal peace and a chance to
reunite with her sister. When Keely succeeds in taking her own life, she
discovers death isn't at all what she expected. Instead, she's trapped in a
netherworld on Earth and her only hope for reconnecting with her sister and
navigating the afterlife is a bounty-hunting reaper and a sardonic, possibly
unscrupulous, demon. But when the demon offers Keely her greatest
temptation—revenge on her sister's murderer—she must uncover his motives and
determine who she can trust. Because, as Keely soon learns, both reaper and
demon are keeping secrets and she fears the worst is true—that her every
decision will change how, and with whom, she spends eternity.
Buy Don't Fear The Reaper:
Amazon US, Amazon UK, Barnes and Noble, iTunes, Smashwords, Createspace
Connect with Michelle Muto:
Facebook, Twitter, Blog
Chapter 1
Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall
fear no evil, for they are with me.
I repeated my version of the psalm as I watched the ribbon of blood
drift from my wrist. I'd hoped it would be a distraction—something to stop me
from wondering what my sister's dying thoughts had been. Exhaling slowly, I let
the emptiness consume me.
Jordan had kept my secrets and I had kept hers. In the end, it came down
to just one secret between us that took her life. Now, it would take mine. I
should have said something, but nothing I said or did now could bring her back
or make anyone understand what she meant to me.
Are you here, Jordan? Are you with me? Tell me about heaven...
I told myself Jordan was gone, never coming back, but her memories
continued to haunt me. I had no idea if there even was an afterlife. If
God existed, I was convinced he had given up on me. Not once did I sense he'd
heard a single one of my prayers. I wasn't asking for the world—I only wanted
to know if my sister was safe and at peace. What was so hard about that?
She should still be here. It wasn't fair.
I'd been the difficult one—much more than Jordan. For a while, I'd even
gotten into drugs. Mom and Dad had worried I'd get Jordan into drugs, too. But
I wouldn't. Not ever. Besides, that part of my life had been over long before
Jordan's death. A small gargoyle tattoo on my left shoulder was all that
remained of my previous lifestyle.
Mom and Dad started treating me differently after Jordan's funeral two
months ago. She and I were twins, so I understood how hard it was for them to
look at me and not see her. Sometimes, they wouldn't look at me at all. Mom
went to the psychiatrist, but no one asked if I needed to talk to someone about
what happened. No one asked if I needed sleeping pills or antidepressants.
Yeah, sure. Don't give the former addict pills of any sort.
Not one person saw the all-consuming suffering that gnawed at my soul.
Why couldn't anyone see? Jordan had been more than my sister—she'd been my
Samson, my strength. I would have done anything for her, and yet, I'd failed
her. I wasn't the one who'd killed her, but I might as well have been. How
could I ever live with that? My heart had a stillness to it since her
death.
I shall fear no evil.
I couldn't very well recite the first part of Psalm 23 because it said I
shall not want, and I did want. I wanted to go back in time. I wanted my
sister back. Clearly, goodness and mercy were never going to be part of my life
ever again. In my mind, I saw myself walking through the iron gates of hell
with demons cackling gleefully all around.
I didn't want to die. Not really. I was just tired and didn't know of
another way to stop the pain. Doctors removed a bad appendix. Dentists pulled
rotten teeth. What was I supposed to do when my very essence hurt, when the
cancer I'd come to call depression made every decent memory agonizingly
unbearable?
Before I'd gotten down to cutting my wrist (I managed to only cut one),
I'd taken a few swigs of Dad's tequila—the good kind he kept in the basement
freezer. I'd used another swig or two to chase down the remainder of Mom's
sleeping pills in the event I failed to hit an artery or vein. Then I'd set the
bottle on the ledge of the tub in case I needed further liquid encouragement.
Instead of using a knife or a razor, I attached a cutting blade to my Dad's
Dremel. The Dremel was faster, I reasoned. More efficient.
It would have been easier to OD, I suppose. But I felt closer to my
sister this way, to suffer as she'd suffered.
I recited the line from Psalms 23 again. It had become my personal
mantra.
The words resonated in my parents' oversized bathroom. I'd chosen theirs
because the Jacuzzi tub was larger than the tub in the hall bathroom. Jordan
and I used to take bubble baths together in this same tub when we were little.
Innocence felt like a lifetime ago. I searched the bathroom for bubble
bath but came up short. Soap might have made the laceration hurt more so it was
probably just as well. Besides, the crimson streaming from my wrist like
watercolor on silk was oddly mesmerizing.
The loneliness inside proved unrelenting, and the line from the psalms
made me feel better. I prayed for the agony inside me to stop. I argued with
God. Pleaded. But after all was said and done, I just wanted the darkness to
call me home.
I tried not to think of who would find my body or who'd read the note
I'd left. I blamed myself not only for failing Jordan, but for failing my parents,
too.
My lifeline to this existence continued to bleed out into the warm
water. Killing myself had been harder than I'd imagined. I hadn't anticipated
the searing fire racing through my veins. I reached for the tequila with my
good arm but couldn't quite manage. Tears welled in my eyes.
Part of me foolishly felt Jordan was here. The other part feared she
wasn't.
Give me a sign, Sis. Just one.
I imagined seeing my parents at my funeral—their gaunt faces, red-eyed
and sleepless. How could I do this to them? Wasn't the devastation of losing
one child enough?
No. Stop. A voice in my head screamed. Don't do this. Don't. Please...
I shifted my body, attempted to get my uncooperative legs under me. I
could see the phone on my parents' nightstand. I could make it that far. Had
to. The voice was right. I didn't want to do this. I felt disorientated, dizzy.
Darkness crept along the edges of my vision. Focusing became difficult. A
sweeping shadow of black caught my attention. Someone stood in the bathroom—not
my sister. A man. Had I managed to call 911? I couldn't remember getting out of
the tub. And why'd I get back in? Did I use a towel?
Mom is going to be pissed when she sees the blood I've tracked all over
the bedroom carpet.
"I'm sorry," I told the man in black.
"It's okay, Keely. Don't be afraid." Not my father's voice. It was
softer, with a hint of sorrow. Distant. Fleeting. Later, I'd feel embarrassed
about this, but for now I was safe from the nothing I'd almost become. My teeth
clattered from the chill. My eyelids fluttered in time with my breaths. The tub
water had turned the color of port wine. The ribbons, the pretty, red
watercolor ribbons were gone.
Dull gray clouded my sight.
A voice whispered to me, and my consciousness floated to the surface
again.
"—okay, Keely."
Cold. So cold.
"I'm right here."
There was no fear in me as the man bent forward, his face inches from
mine. He was my father's age, and yet strangely older. His eyes were so...blue,
almost iridescent. The irises were rimmed in a fine line of black, and the
creases etched at the corners reminded me of sunbeams as he gave me a weak
smile. The oddly. Dressed. Paramedic. A warm hand reached into the water and
cradled mine. My fingers clutched his. I sighed, feeling myself floating,
drifting. Light—high and intense exploded before me. No! Too much. Too much!
I shuddered and labored to catch my breath, but it wouldn't come.
Finally,
the comfort of darkness rose to greet me.
February 22, 2012
Tour Stop: It's a Little Haywire by Elle Strauss
The Fog Train
IT'S A LITTLE HAYWIRE is a contemporary
story with a twist of magic realism. The trains don't run through Hayward WA,
aka Haywire, anymore since the Mill
shut down. Nothing much is moving through Haywire anymore, it's a dying town
hit hard by the recession.
Owen True lives on the other side of the
metaphorical tracks and hasn't personally encountered the effects of financial
stress until he spends a summer month with his Gramps, where he meets a
homeless man for the first time and witnesses the breakdown of his friend's
family.
It'sa Little Haywire is actually a major re-write of a
book I wrote years ago when I first decided I'd like to try my hand at writing.
It was horribly executed but the core of the idea was still salvageable. It was
inspired by an experience I had, I think in a near dream state, where I woke up
to the sound of a train whistle, much like I used to as a child in the small
town where my grandparents lived. Except we didn't live near the tracks at the
time.
That's where the idea for the mysterious
fog train first materialized. Why would someone hear a train whistle when there
wasn't a train?
The first time Owen True encounters the fog
train, he's pretty shaken up. He sees it several times over the month he's in
Haywire and each time it transforms, until it finally gives him a clue to how
he can help the struggling citizens of Haywire.
Download It's A Little Haywire at Amazon FREE today only!
February 13, 2012
February 1, 2012
5 Quick Things
1. Return to Eden is Coming! - The third book in the Soulkeepers Series is with beta readers, Once they are done with it and I've made any necessary changes, it's off to my new copyeditor Dani Crabtree. Still on target for an early March release. Tour schedule is in development.
2. Cute New MG Books - If you have a middle grader with an ereader, check out these new MG books by authors I admire! I'm really excited to see more eBook options for this age group.
Gabby is a disgruntled tween angel who has just been assigned to protect her school nemesis and ex-beffie. Problem is her ex-beffie is dating Gabby's longtime crush. Instead of protecting Angela, Gabby pranks her (since when is sticking toilet paper to her shoe or spinach in her teeth a sin?) Soon, Gabby gets out of control and is put on probation by her SKYAgent, who has anger management issues of his own. Determined to right her wrongs, Gabby steals an ancient artifact that allows her to return to Earth for just one day. Without knowing, she kicks off a series of events and learns what can happen when you hate someone to death.
Owen True is eleven and eleven twelfths and has been "exiled" to the small crazy town of Hayward, WA, aka, Haywire, while his mother is on her honeymoon. All he has to whittle away the time is the company of Gramps, his black lab Daisy, and his Haywire friends, Mason and Mikala Sweet. They don't look so hot this year, in fact, the whole town has gone to pot since the mill shut down.
Owen has his first encounter with a real life homeless man who ends up needing Owen's help in more ways than one. But how does a rich city kid help the small town's suffering citizens?And what is Owen to make of the fog train and its scary, otherworldy occupants that appears out of thin air on the old tracks behind Gramps' house? Do they have the answer Owen is looking for?
3. I'm not ignoring you- I've been ill but I'm better now. Sorry if I was not as responsive as usual this last week. Here's my favorite new video of what I SHOULD have been doing instead of being sick.
4. Personal Appearance- I'll be at Illinois State University, February 25th 11:30-5PM as part of the Author Showcase. I'll be signing paperbacks and answering questions. If you live in the area, I'd love to meet you.
5. Buyer Beware - With the recent popularity of The Soulkeepers Series, the books have been pirated on a multitude of sites. BEWARE. Because these sites do NOT have my permission to sell my books, they are not getting the latest file updates from me. The files may not be current, complete, or free from viruses and I can't guarantee that the seller hasn't modified the book in some way. In other words, you may not be getting the same book! The only retailers authorized to sell my ebooks are Amazon, iBookstore, Barnes and Noble, Smashwords, Sony, Kobo, and Diesel.
January 20, 2012
Call for Bloggers: Return to Eden Blog Tour
I'm just beginning to plan my blog tour for Return to Eden. If you would like to be included in the tour, please send an email to gpching (at) gmail (dot) com with a link to your blog. I'll be contacting bloggers soon with details and don't want to miss anyone interested in participating.
